Category Archives: good times at everyone else’s expense

Cover Up That Caesarean Scar, Fatty

Posted by plumpdumpling on May 12, 2011 – 12:00 pm
Filed under good times at everyone else's expense, it's fun to be fat, my uber-confrontational personality, stuff i hate, why i'm better than everyone else
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I’ve never worn a bikini. I burst forth from my mother’s womb at 145 pounds, already wearing footie pajamas to hide my shame, so my beach attire has always included one-pieces and t-shirts. Well, my friends and I are soon going back to the Hamptons beach house we rented last year, and I’ve been actively searching again for the perfect swimsuit after last year’s tankini disaster at Laguna Beach.

I think I finally did find a suit that I’ll like, but more importantly, I was reminded that everyone else likes the wrong suit. For reference, here is the only person who should be wearing a bikini:

I don’t mean to be anti-feminist here, but seriously, if you don’t look like that, why are you wearing one?

Do you just looooove the way the water feels on your stomach? Hey, guess what; water actually soaks through swimsuits right to your skin!

Were you hoping for some awesome bikini tan lines? TAN LINES ARE NOT SEXY.

I imagine you’re not doing it to show off your love handles or the fact that no amount of padding will give you sideboobs.

And I kind of doubt you want people noticing that your midsection’s shaped less like an hourglass and more like one of those fat pencils we used to use in kindergarten.

You know what hides love handles, weird foam padding, and your giant potbelly that sort of reminds one of a poisonous growth on a treetrunk?

ONE-PIECES! For me, even models look better in them:

I guess I’d just rather see less and imagine perfection than to be assaulted by how imperfect everything is. And don’t try to tell me that imperfections are beautiful, you bikini-wearing sap.

This is Why I’m Not Beloved in the Scrapbooking Community

Posted by plumpdumpling on April 19, 2011 – 12:00 pm
Filed under good times at everyone else's expense
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When I was home at the beginning of the month, my best friend, Tracey, showed me her Project Life scrapbook. Designed by Becky Higgins to be used without a bunch of extra supplies, it’s about the most ingenious thing I’ve seen for the lazy cropper. You supply the pictures and the words, and the kit supplies the book, pocketed inserts for holding everything, journaling cards, and embellishments so you end up with effortless little pages like this:


Sorry, person I stole this layout from! I don’t remember who you were!

And it just so happens that the Amber Edition of the kit is covered with the brocade pattern I love so much!

Now, I’d usually write about the kit on our scrapbooking/cardmaking/general pretty things blog, but I have to tell this aside. See, Tracey’s taking a picture a day for hers, which seems like a great way to go for me, since I sometimes forget to document the everyday-to-me but totally-interesting-in-the-greater-scheme-of-things stuff here in NYC.

Well, I got off the bus near Kamran’s apartment the other day, and right in front of me was a little person! And I don’t mean a child, because you know I don’t consider children people, but a tiny adult in a well-appointed miniature trench coat and rain boots. I wanted to take her picture so badly, because there wasn’t a chance I was going to see anything cooler that day, but I realized there’s no quicker way to get yourself called an asshole than to snap a picture of a dwarf behind her back.

I thought, “Maybe I can use my extremely long and graceful normal-sized legs to catch up with her and ask to pose for me!” But then I realized that wouldn’t work either, because you know there’s not a chance I could’ve spoken to her in anything other than a baby voice.

So I played it safe and took a picture of myself instead. The only thing dwarfish about me is my sense of tact.

Everyone’s a Little Bit Racist (and I’m a Lot)

Posted by plumpdumpling on December 1, 2010 – 12:00 pm
Filed under good times at everyone else's expense
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One of the great things about my Twitter platform of choice, TweetDeck, is that it has a column that shows what the popular tweeting topics on Twitter as a whole are. TweetDeck supplies the hashtags, and users are supposed to write explanations of why they’re trending.

And while I know that racism hurts people and that all of the African-American females I know are incredibly well-educated, I really got tickled by the poor grammar in this one:

Sorry, black friends! I’m donating to the NAACP to make up for it as we speak.

Not to Suck Up to You or Anything

Posted by plumpdumpling on November 8, 2010 – 12:00 pm
Filed under good times at everyone else's expense
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Sometimes I’ll read a very funny blog post and see that it has 0 comments and think, “I am going to comment on this pathetic person’s very funny blog post so she’ll feel encouraged to keep blogging despite the fact that not a single person is reading her.”

And then I’ll click on the individual post, and there’ll actually be 1153 comments, so many that the blog author didn’t think it necessary to advertise them all over the main page. And then I’ll feel like the pathetic one, because my last blog post will have gotten 6 comments.

But then I’ll start to read the comments, and the first one is inevitably

and the two that follow are

and

And suddenly I’ll feel really good about my 6 comments and the fact that they’re always thoughtful and usually more clever than the actual post itself. I say usually so you won’t get a bunch of big heads.

Thanks, guys, for reading and for writing and for being awesome. Especially the being awesome part.

My Doctor Don’t Know CPR, but He Knows How to Treat Me Right (Eventually)

Posted by plumpdumpling on September 9, 2010 – 12:00 pm
Filed under creepy boyfriend obsession, good times at everyone else's expense, living in new york sucks so hard, narcissism, why i'm better than everyone else
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I step onto one of the elevators in Kamran’s building on Friday after work, and a guy in blue scrubs comes in after me. To me, his matching cotton uniform means the guy is too lazy to own real clothes, but I understand that the rest of the world assumes he’s some sort of “medical professional”. This woman slips in just as the doors are closing, so they open back up, and the three of us stand there awkward and silent while we wait for them to close again, because it’s super-rare for someone to talk to you in an elevator in NYC, no matter how cheerfully you smile at them as they enter.

She’s about my age. (Maybe a little older, because people my age can’t afford to live in Kamran’s building unless they have really morally-inexcusable jobs on Wall Street, or at least that’s what I tell myself as I return to my Brooklyn hovel.) She’s wearing a navy blue shift dress that looks expensive, she’s covered in chunky jewelry that looks expensive, and all of the bags on her arm are from expensive stores. I see her slyly eying the guy in the scrubs, and I think about how she probably thinks she’s really hot and deserves to date this spiky-haired dental hygienist posing as a doctor.

So we get to her floor first, and she makes this production of tossing her long blonde hair and holding her bags in her krelbows in that way women always do in movies when they’ve just finished a shopping spree with their friends and are now going to brunch at an outdoor cafe to drink mimosas and laugh at things not even they actually think are funny. She bounces off the elevator, the whatever-he-is looks after her, and for a moment, you know the two of them are totally mind-jerking-off about one another. But just before she’s out of sight, she loses her grip on her very long umbrella, and it gets caught on her I-swear-they-were-patchwork heels. She trips and almost falls down but catches herself, and I almost laugh out loud but catch myself.

And usually, this is where I would accidentally do the same thing six floors later, but I didn’t need to be all bumbling in front of this guy, because I had my own doctor waiting for me at home.

Or, well, he came home from work, like, 4 hours later. But I still felt awfully superior sitting alone in his apartment eating homemade frosting.